Revolution Ceviche

All I want to eat in this weather is ceviche, ceviche, ceviche. I don’t trust myself to make it–raw fish requires an expert touch, I fear–but I wolf it everywhere I find it, especially at the swoony jungle rooftop garden of the Llama Inn. I’d eat ceviche for breakfast, lunch and dinner if I could possibly manage three meals in this heat. Maybe a fish taco for variation every once in a while, but, really, bring on the ceviche. We can solve the country’s problems with ceviche, I think, because I’ll devour even the most unappetizing fish if it’s been marinated with many habaneros. So let’s do white supremacist ceviche, NRA fanatic ceviche, transphobic troll ceviche. Fuck it. Let’s do Trump ceviche.